Page 104 of Protect my Heart
I shake my head, trying not to laugh. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” he says, stepping closer, dropping his voice low so only I can hear, “you married me. Twice.”
Heat rises to my cheeks, and not because of the faint summer breeze coming through the window.
“Should I be concerned,” I murmur, tilting my head, “that you’re so confident in the middle of a room full of children?”
He leans even closer. “I’m confident everywhere. Except when I have to clean glitter from my hair. That’s terrifying.”
I let out a quiet laugh, brushing an imaginary speck off his cheek, even though I know it's paint. He doesn’t flinch. He never does with me.
“You know,” I say softly, “you don’t have to keep showing up every Saturday.”
“I know,” he says just as softly, “but I want to. This matters to you. So it matters to me.”
And just like that, my chest feels full again.
Since childhood I had a list of dreams I’d folded up and hidden in a drawer. Being a painter? One of them, but as I grew up that felt too impractical. Too whimsical. Not something people like me did. But Aarav—this idiot, stubborn man—wouldn’t let me forget it.
He was the one who found the diploma course online.
He was the one who said, “Do it. I’ll handle the bills, the house, the world, whatever you need. Just paint.”
And he was the one who signed me up for an empty space that became this studio. Now here I am. Teaching art. Covered in paint. And in love.
“You’re staring,” he whispers.
“I’m allowed,” I whisper back. “You’re my husband.” I smile smugly, and he chuckles.
He winks. “Want to go make out in the storage closet?”
“Aarav!”
“I’m just saying,” he replies with a shrug. “Art makes me emotional.”
“You’re such a menace.”
“And you,” he says, kissing my temple quickly before darting away to avoid the glare I give him, “love me anyway.”
Damn it. I do. I really do. And that’s the best thing that ever happened to me.
